Time drops in decay Like a candle burnt out. And the mountains and woods Have their day, have their day; But, kindly old rout Of the fire-born moods, You pass not away.
THE HOSTING OF THE SIDHE
The host is riding from Knocknarea,
And over the grave of Clooth-na-bare;
Caolte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling, "Away, come away;
Empty your heart of its mortal dream.
The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,
Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,
Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are a-gleam,
Our arms are waving, our lips are apart,
And if any gaze on our rushing band,
We come between him and the deed of his hand,
We come between him and the hope of his heart."
The host is rushing 'twixt night and day;
And where is there hope or deed as fair?
Caolte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling, "Away, come away."
Preface
18/11/2017
Chapter 1
18/11/2017
Chapter 2
18/11/2017
Chapter 3
18/11/2017
Chapter 4
18/11/2017
Chapter 5
18/11/2017
Chapter 6
18/11/2017
Chapter 7
18/11/2017
Chapter 8
18/11/2017
Chapter 9
18/11/2017
Chapter 10
18/11/2017
Chapter 11
18/11/2017
Chapter 12
18/11/2017
Chapter 13
18/11/2017
Chapter 14
18/11/2017
Chapter 15
18/11/2017
Chapter 16
18/11/2017
Chapter 17
18/11/2017
Chapter 18
18/11/2017
Chapter 19
18/11/2017
Chapter 20
18/11/2017
Chapter 21
18/11/2017
Chapter 22
18/11/2017
Chapter 23
18/11/2017
Chapter 24
18/11/2017
Chapter 25
18/11/2017
Chapter 26
18/11/2017
Chapter 27
18/11/2017
Chapter 28
18/11/2017
Chapter 29
18/11/2017
Chapter 30
18/11/2017
Chapter 31
18/11/2017
Chapter 32
18/11/2017
Chapter 33
18/11/2017
Chapter 34
18/11/2017
Chapter 35
18/11/2017
Chapter 36
18/11/2017
Chapter 37
18/11/2017
Chapter 38
18/11/2017
Chapter 39
18/11/2017
Other books by W. B. Yeats
More